


One Regret

by tubbyk



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-04-27 14:43:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14427690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tubbyk/pseuds/tubbyk
Summary: Aramis learns that Porthos has one regret.





	1. We'll Never Know

“I visited your widow and tried to kiss her.” 

“You did not.”

“I most certainly did.”

“When?”

“After she broke up with you.”

A wicked smile threatened to break out on Porthos’ lips. 

“And did she let you kiss her or did she listen to the warning I gave her about never, ever letting my friend Aramis charm her in any way shape or form?”

“You did not!”

“I most certainly did!” insisted Porthos, “And I have done the same to all of my lady friends for the many years I’ve kept company with you. 

Aramis attempted outrage, but the wrinkling of his brow left a furrow for the blood to ooze down and he had to flick his head to stop it from trickling into his eyes. He shook his head roughly, closed his eyes tight and tipped his head back, desperately mouthing small prayers. 

Porthos took a hitched breath, blood flowing freely from the wound in his side, sweat burning his neck and chest as he watched on helplessly. 

“Hey, none of that! Keep talking! Look at me! Aramis, tell me more. I need you to tell me something else. The most shocking thing you’ve done.”

The prayers were still falling off his lips as Aramis dropped his head back down and stared at Porthos. He had to try. Had to do this. If nothing else could be done, he could keep his word at the end. 

“I …. I …” 

Tears fell freely now and he swooned back against the large wooden pole, unable to drop to the ground even though injuries and fear were taking away his strength to stand. 

“Aramis! _No!_ Stay with me. I can’t bear to see you falter. We agreed! Come on, open your eyes. Look at me. We’ve always done everything together and we’re going to do this together now too.” 

Even as Porthos was begging Aramis to stare at him his own attention was diverted to the right of his friend where four Spanish soldiers were lining up, preparing their muskets. 

“Porthos?” Aramis was looking wide-eyed and trembling at the other four executioners who were readying themselves next to Porthos. 

“Straight ahead, Aramis. Don’t watch them. Only me.” He grimaced and felt his stomach lurch and roll with desperate anticipation. 

“You’re my best friend,” stated Aramis, his constricting throat making it barely audible. He blinked at Porthos as he heard him moan and recognised the terror mirrored opposite him. “You’re my best friend, Porthos!” he repeated, louder and more surely. “You’ve always been braver than me and you have to be brave for both of us now.”

One of the soldiers raised his musket and cruelly took a practice aim at Aramis. 

“No! No!” Porthos cried. “We’re going together. Don’t take him first. _Please._ ”

The Spanish soldier didn’t understand his words exactly, but had the good grace to drop his gun along with his eyes and affect temporary contriteness if that was possible for an executioner. 

“Together,” declared Aramis firmly through tears. “We’re musketeers. We did our best, we did it together and we were a beautiful, magnificent sight to behold, weren’t we, Porthos?”

Porthos swallowed down a sob, and shook as he saw the four soldiers next to Aramis ready their positions to fire in his direction.

“My brave Porthos. I’m here. I won’t look away from you again, I swear. I won’t fail you. We’ll have no regrets now.”

The muskets to Porthos’ left were checked and readied. He took some loud, deep breaths and stared at Aramis, mentally vowing to find and give strength equally. 

“No regrets, my friend,” repeated Aramis, sweat and blood sheening his face but not dulling his dark eyes which had steadied and steeled themselves in this last moment of crisis. 

“None,” affirmed Porthos with a growl. 

Then he sniffed and tried to grin. 

‘One regret. And one only.”

Aramis frowned. 

‘Please, my friend, have no regrets. Not now.”

“Just one.” Porthos restated fondly. “You.”

Only Aramis could affect a pout in the last moments before death. 

It made Porthos smile. 

“All those ladies. That magical charm you used to reel ‘em in. I’ve watched you for years, loitering on the periphery, feeling the glow, the pull of your attraction, admiring everything you do from the sidelines. The velvet words, the eye contact promising everything and so much more, the little brushes of your hand, the tentative touches, the ghosted kisses… ”

Aramis swallowed, mesmerised, leaning forward as far as his binds allowed to hear the last confession. 

“Just one regret, _mon ami_. You never tried any of them on me.”

Blood, sweat and tears were forgotten. Aramis stared, dumbstruck. 

“On you? You wanted me to …?”

It was too late to be abashed. The muskets were readied. Porthos smiled his biggest, most dazzling smile at his friend. 

“Yeah, I’d love to have seen what you would have done with me. What I would have done in return.”

“What would you have done? Tell me. I need to know!” 

It was a desperate plea, almost a whisper, but Porthos understood. He shrugged as best he could. 

“That’s my regret. I’ll never know.”

They stared at each other, even as two soldiers approached them offering blindfolds for their last moments. 

It was Aramis who declined first by turning his head away from the black strip of cloth but not once did he break eye contact with Porthos. “No, I want to spend my last seconds looking at my best friend. Remembering, wondering.”

“But on the last count we’ll close our eyes. Together.”

“Yes, together.”

“I don’t want to see you ...”

“You won’t.”

Aramis began to breathe heavily. The Spanish commander took his position and began to count down. 

“Oh God. Porthos? When we are in heaven, if I should meet you again, I promise on all that is holy … I will.”

“You’ll…?

“I’ll find you and woo you and dazzle you and touch you and kiss you and make your knees buckle until you won’t be able to resist me.”

“Aramis?”

“Porthos?”

“Find me and seduce me. I look forward to it, _mon ami._ ”

Aramis could only nod, his smile teary and shivering.

Porthos bared his teeth and nodded in reply. 

It was time. 

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

They both closed their eyes on whispered prayers.


	2. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Execution aftermath

Eight soldiers shooting yet it sounded like hundreds more. A cacophony of noise, the sharp, pungent aroma of gunpowder, then Porthos was aware of the distinctive metallic flavour swilling in his mouth, of pungent burnt earth searing his nostrils as desperate shouts and cries echoed around him.

Death, it seemed, mirrored life on the battlefield. A bitter, acrid assault on all his senses then a disappointing lack of finality. 

“Porthos!” 

What was d’Artagnan’s voice doing in his afterlife reverie?

“It’s okay. It’s okay. We’ve got you. _Damn!_ Porthos, stay with me.”

Hands clumsily worked at the knots binding his wrists, d’Artagnan’s voice reassuring and cursing in equal measure as Porthos struggled to regain his composure and slow the racing heart threatening to thump its way out of his chest. Another pair of hands began poking and prodding around his midriff, inspecting the stab wound and making him cry out and try to shy away. 

“You! Doctor! I need you here now.” 

Athos had also chosen to make an appearance in the afterlife it seemed. He wasn’t close by and his shout was demanding and hoarse and alarmingly, unmistakeably scared. 

_“Doctor!_ This one is more urgent! By god, I will drag you over here by your hair if you don’t …..”

The hands on Porthos’ stomach left him immediately and at the same time his wrists were cut free and he slumped to the ground with a moan, ignoring more of d’Artagnan’s swearing then profuse apologies for not catching him. Adrenaline still coursed through his body, blood loss and three days and nights with barely any sleep taking their toll and Porthos could barely summon any curiosity about his circumstances and surroundings, such was the utter weariness he felt. 

He was dimly aware that perhaps this wasn’t the afterlife, but was unable to decide whether he should care either way. Unconsciousness beckoned and he gladly welcomed it. 

“Athos? Is he …?”

_Is who what?_

Porthos held enough interest to stay lucid while d’Artagnan awaited the answer, the strain in his voice echoing in the tension of the arms that held him. 

“He’s alive. Barely.”

_Who?_

“Aramis! We’re all here. Porthos is okay. Stay with us!” 

D’Artagnan’s desperate plea shouted into the unknown made something inside Porthos roar and thrash to make itself known. He shook his head roughly – _huge mistake_ \- and tried to co-ordinate his leaden limbs to stand up. 

“Aramis?”

“Hey now. You’re going nowhere.” Strong hands held him down but Porthos threw them off with a grunt.

_“Aramis?!”_

“No, no, I repeat, you’re not in any condition to go anywhere.”

Blinking profusely and clearing his eyes for the first time, Porthos looked past the concerned face of d’Artagnan to the point a hundred yards away where the other execution post stood firm in the muddied ground. A clutch of garrison soldiers were standing around it but giving Athos and the doctor a wide berth as they tended to the bloodied form slumped forward but still tied to the post. 

Porthos heard himself cry something unintelligible and he tried to scramble upright, then settled for sluggishly crawling forward. Anything to get to Aramis. 

“Porthos, you can’t … you need to …. this isn’t … okay, here, at least let me help you.”

With d’Artagnan’s assistance, Porthos staggered and stumbled across the muddy field. It was ungainly, it hurt, he made unintelligible noises, exhaling from effort and inhaling from pain. The terror he had heard in Athos’ voice manifested itself deep in his chest, a swell of fear rippling through him the closer he lurched to his target. But Porthos didn’t need to be too near to see the severity of the damage. Blood gushed from an injury on Aramis’ head and his white shirt was soaked through with two fresh wounds on his shoulder and side. Porthos reached him just as the ties were cut and he caught Aramis in his arms before his limp body could hit the ground. His skin was almost as pale as his shirt, blood and grime and bruises making nasty showy patterns all over his face and chest. 

Porthos buried his face in Aramis’ neck and breathed in his scent, willing, trying with all his might to draw forth any life within. “Don’t you dare do this. You bastard, you promised me we’d die together. Well I’m alive, ‘Mis, so you can’t leave me here like this. You and me, that’s how it is. Whatever we do, we do it together. Remember?”

Porthos lifted a hand from Aramis’ side to wipe a wayward curl from his brow but he stopped still and looked, stunned. His hand was coated with blood. So much blood, dark and menacing, it dripped down his wrist even as he stared. 

Someone tried to pull him back and they received a sharp elbow in the face for their efforts. 

“Porthos!” Athos intervened, “Enough, my friend. There is no time for this. The doctor must treat Aramis immediately or ...”

“We’re alive,” murmured Porthos helplessly as Athos and d’Artagnan manhandled him back to let the doctor continue his treatment. He tried again, louder. “Aramis, we’re alive. We made it!”

The last image Porthos had was of Athos reaching forward to grab Aramis’ shirt as the doctor cut it off and waved it away. In one movement Athos grabbed it then knelt down beside Porthos and wrapped the white material around his hand, wiping off the blood.

Porthos’ eyes met Athos’, saw the grim fear up close now, rare and unpromising and he became even more terrified. “Aramis can’t die. We’re meant to stay together.”

Whatever reply Athos was going to offer faded into blackness. 

 

..................................

 

“Welcome back, my friend.”

“At last!”

Porthos rumbled something random even he didn't understand and kept his eyes shut tight. He recognised the voices of his friends but he needed to think, to remember something. He began to wade through the fog in his mind. 

_Riding, fighting, pain, talking, promises, terror, blood_ ..... 

Something ominous swilled in his gullet, just out of reach and better left alone…. 

_“Aramis!”_

He sat up and his eyes sprang open then quickly creased shut as the pain in his abdomen threatened to boot him out cold again. 

Porthos tried again but this time a hand flattened against his chest and held him down.

“Easy, big man. At some point you’re going to have to stop fighting us,” chided d’Artagnan. 

“Aramis.”

“He’s alive,” said another voice.

Running through the myriad of ways someone could describe a sick person’s condition, _‘he’s alive’_ didn’t sound nearly as comforting to Porthos as _‘he’s fine’_ or _‘he’s okay’_ or a thousand other vague descriptions one could have used if they were trying not to induce panic.

“Just … alive?”

Athos understood the need for a clearer definition and he was staring at Porthos calmly when their eyes finally met. 

“Just alive sums it up well unfortunately.”

Trust Athos not to sugarcoat or extend the report. Porthos gritted his teeth and looked down to where his hand was clutching a red piece of cloth. No, not red. White, saturated with red. Aramis’ shirt. Aramis’ blood. 

“Tell me,” demanded Porthos, shooting up a fierce glance and getting nothing from Athos’ demeanour. 

“We attacked from the north, the forest side, behind where Aramis was tethered,” said Athos evenly. “Our shots hit the soldiers who were aiming at you, but unfortunately we didn’t manage to completely stop all the Spanish standing beside you from shooting him. Two of them were hit before they could fire, the other two fired on cue and shot Aramis. The Spanish commander was also still alive and managed to fire a third shot at Aramis as he went down. Not one of our finer rescue attempts unfortunately.” 

Porthos swallowed deeply. “He took three shots?”

“The musket balls are all out,” confirmed d’Artagnan, “One badly grazed his head, one went straight through him and the last in his stomach was horribly deep and had to be removed. The blood loss has been severe and taxing. Plus he had the beatings and exposure to the elements before the execution, which have weakened him greatly.”

“Has he regained consciousness at all?” 

At the negative shake of Athos’ head, Porthos once again tried to rise. 

“Did we not just speak about this?” complained d’Artagnan, with an exasperated click of his tongue. 

“He needs me.”

“He needs rest.”

“He’ll get rest. I’ll just happen to be there while he’s getting it. Now are you going to show me where he is or do I have to knock you out and go searching every room in the garrison to find him?”

Athos and d'Artagnan shared a knowing look over Porthos' head even as he tried to rise.

“Thank you d’Artagnan and Athos for riding in to save me,” muttered Athos as he bent to let Porthos lean over his shoulder and helped him to stand. “Oh, any time Porthos, you know we like nothing better than endangering our lives so you can completely ignore us when we get you to safety. And we know you value us because you didn’t elbow us in the face and break our nose as you did with the doctor who tried to save your life.”

D’Artagnan laughed delightedly at the uncommon length of Athos’ teasing speech and even Athos smiled when Porthos grumbled an apology and squeezed Athos to him, kissing his temple. But he dropped his head immediately after and shook it slowly, tensely.

“Can’t joke. Nothing’s funny while Aramis is ….”

“We know. But that won’t stop us trying to elicit a lighter mood occasionally.” d’Artagnan put his arm under Porthos’ shoulder and patted him gently on the back. 

“Come on. Let’s get you to where you need to go.”


	3. Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Games are played. Major Cockblocking occurs. Some people aren't as easily fooled as others would like them to be.

“Hurts.” This assessment was accompanied by a groan of pain, but Porthos couldn’t help smiling. 

A light dusting of colour had returned to Aramis’ cheeks as he murmured uncomplimentary declarations and complaints and rolled his head around on the pillow, trying to shake the discomfort. 

“Hey, ‘Mis.” Porthos squeezed his hand then lifted the knuckles to his lips. 

“Can’t …. Hurts.” 

Aramis twisted his hand out of Porthos’ and tried to open his eyes and focus. 

“ _Shhhh._ Take it easy. I got you.”

“Porthos?”

Words failed as he heard Aramis say his name and Porthos just sat and smiled broadly at the sick, grouchy countenance squirming with discomfort in front of him.

“Can you remember what happened?”

Frowning, Aramis carded a hand through his hair and rested it on his brow, recollections vague and elusive. 

“We were … riding?” He peered at Porthos from under his hand, noting the affirmative nod. “Fell. Don’t 'member how.”

“Ambushed.”

“I …. I shot someone … approaching. Then …. my sword … I think I ran someone through … it’s blank.”

“You killed one with your musket and four with your sword,” confirmed Porthos. 

“Did I? I feel very accomplished.”

“Tremendously. Before the other twenty Spanish overpowered you and their thirty friends overpowered me and we were taken to the Spanish camp.”

A _'hurrumph'_ came from beneath the hand. “I’m glad I don’t recall that part of the story.”

“They decided that due punishment for us killing the Spanish General the week before was execution.”

Aramis simultaneously dropped his hand and raised his eyebrows. 

“Really?”

Porthos nodded and said matter-of-factly, “Firing squad.”

“How remarkably uncouth.”

“I believe you did offer that opinion to them more than once.”

Aramis frowned and ran his fingers over the bandaged wounds on his stomach. 

“Is that where these came from?”

“More or less. When they could not be swayed from executing us you insisted that we at least die facing each other, not side by side so they had to split the firing squad, four beside you, four beside me. Our rescuers could only properly target the shooters beside you as they ran in, so your executioners had the chance to finish you off.”

Aramis paled. “Thank goodness the Spanish didn’t have four of me aiming.” 

“And you don’t remember anything else?”

Exhaling, Aramis closed his eyes for a long minute then shook his head, a frown creasing his forehead. 

“I remember not being able to move my arms. I guess that was when we were tied. I remember the feeling of terror. An anticipation so dreadful that my legs shook.” He thought some more then sighed. “But alas, or luckily, that is all.”

Porthos dropped his eyes, needing privacy to process that piece of information. 

“Hey,” murmured Aramis as he gently pulled the sleeve of Porthos’ shirt. “I’m sorry if I left you alone at the end there.”

“Trust me, you didn’t.”

“I wish I could remember.”

“Prob’ly for the best you can’t.”

Aramis made a face. “Bad?”

Porthos deliberated for a moment then said with a wry smile, “Emotionally taxing like you wouldn’t believe.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need to be. Ever. I wouldn’t have made it through that with anybody else.”

Aramis beamed then coughed then gasped and clutched his stomach. 

“That’s my signal,” observed Porthos. “Time for you to rest, my friend.”

“Porthos?” Aramis once again tugged his shirt. “Thank you, _mon ami_. I can’t picture what actually happened but I know I wouldn’t want to face death without you near me. You are always my comfort. My brother.”

“Brother. Yeah. That’s what I am. Your brother.”

Porthos gave Aramis a hasty kiss on his forehead, not trusting himself to linger, then patted his leg as he moved around the bed and dragged his tired legs out the door. For the rest of the evening he lay alone pondering the joys and tragedies of forgotten memories. 

 

......................

 

Aramis lay following the path of a zillion motes dipping, wafting and swirling up through the morning beam that rudely broke through his open window. Four mornings suddenly brought him clarity. Stark, invasive thoughts. Some memories he wished to forget and some he replayed over and over and over as if unable to believe they weren’t a dream.

His door opened and Porthos peered inside, beaming as he saw his gaze returned. 

“Mornin’. Why are you awake at this time?

“It feels like I’ve slept the sleep of the dead.”

“You almost have. Feel better?”

Aramis raised a hand flat and rocked it back and forth. “Only when I don’t move, breathe, talk or think.”

It made Porthos’ smile widen. 

“Perhaps eating is out of the question then?” said Athos, pushing through the door behind Porthos and placing a bag on the side of the bed. 

“You must be joking. I’m famished.”

Aramis eyed the contents of the bag hungrily and pulled out a peach. 

“The bread is for you. The peach is for me,” explained Athos. “Too rich for your delicate stomach at this time methinks.”

“No, the peach is definitely what I want,” insisted Aramis and he took a big bite of the fruit before it could be confiscated from him. Juice exploded down over his chin and on to his bare chest, his moustache and beard drenched in the sweet nectar. 

“Aramis,” scolded Athos as he took another big bite and added to the mess. 

“My nursemaid will clean me up,” grinned Aramis through a mouthful of peach, eyes glinting as he looked up at Porthos. 

The big man tutted and bent over Aramis, grabbing a cloth and murmuring gentle admonishments as he wet the side of the material in a bowl of water and began wiping Aramis’ bemused face. 

This eating, messing and wiping continued on for another few minutes until Athos confiscated the sloppy remains of the peach stone and glared at Aramis as he reached across for the cloth to clean his fingers. 

Aramis was looking at Porthos as if he were a giant peach just waiting to be bitten into, hunger and mischief and …. _something else_ .... that set off alarm bells … flashing in his eyes. 

Athos checked Porthos’ expression and saw nothing amiss other than studious attention to the task at hand as he quietly concentrated on wiping the remains of the peach from Aramis’ face, neck and chest. 

Porthos, Athos noted, did his utmost to avoid Aramis’ ravenous gaze. 

The _'something’_ with the peach made Athos ensure that he was present later that night when the musketeers returned from their soldiering task for the day which involved escorting in a General and a large regiment of hardened, war-weary soldiers based south of Toulouse. It was supposed to be a ‘light’ task – compliments of Treville being aware of their desire to remain in proximity to their injured friend – but Porthos in particular had bristled at the undercurrent of mockery and aggression aimed at them by the Toulouse soldiers, openly questioning the musketeers’ ability to truly fight when they were based in the ‘safety’ of Paris and not in direct fire down on the Spanish border.

“We did our job, the matter is over,” counselled Athos as they strode through the garrison.

“They said we weren’t proper soldiers, it ain’t right,” bridled Porthos angrily, pushing open the door to Aramis’ room with excessive force. 

They both stopped dead. Aramis’ bed was rumpled but empty. 

_“Aramis!"_

A hurried inspection involving the shoving and knocking over of furniture led to Porthos wedging himself under the table in the far corner to inspect the flailing form of Aramis, lying moaning and groaning, naked except for the sheet which was tangled around his legs. 

“I’ll get the doctor,” exclaimed Athos as he knelt down to examine their friend. 

“No. ‘Mfine,” murmured Aramis, lifting a weak hand up to stroke Porthos’ chest, curling his face into the crook of his arm. “No doctor, please.”

“What happened?” Porthos pushed a contrary curl back from Aramis' forehead and checked his torso to see if the wounds had reopened. 

“Couldn’t reach water. Fell.”

“Why did you have to get up to fetch water? Why were you here alone?” demanded Athos. “We were assured that you were going to be tended to every moment we were away.”

Aramis shrugged weakly. “I might’ve sent the boy away to get stuff.”

Athos stood and crossed his arms. “Define _‘stuff.’”_

“Peaches,” Aramis mumbled into Porthos’ doublet and pushed his face further into Porthos’ arm. 

Porthos and Athos exchanged a long-suffering look. 

“Back to bed with you,” ordered Porthos, making to lift him, but Aramis clutched his arms and shook his head in protest. 

“No, just …. stay here for a minute. I just need to rest here with you.” Aramis glanced up at Athos briefly out of the corner of his eye and added plaintively, “Maybe Athos could go and get me some water? It spilled when I fell.”

 _Something_ … Athos still couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong … but he acknowledged the need for water and headed for the well, still thinking and puzzling.

When he returned, his friends had not moved. If anything, Aramis was even more entwined in Porthos’ arms, murmuring feebly as Porthos stroked his hair and fussed a thumb over his bandaged shoulder. 

“Come on, back to bed with you,” Athos ordered, setting the basin of fresh water on the tabletop and bending to help lift the patient. 

Too quickly, Athos caught a resentful flick of a look from Aramis. It was brief but unmistakeable and was quickly swallowed up by whinging moans as Porthos lifted and pushed Aramis as gently as he could up into Athos’ arms.

“Where’s my peach?” he demanded ungratefully as he was lowered down onto the bed. 

“Somewhere on a tree, in an orchard, a long way out of Paris, I suspect,” muttered Athos, covering Aramis with a sheet and tucking him in just a little more tightly than necessary. 

Aramis glowered. “Your nursing skills are severely lacking.” 

Athos’ smile was a mixture of sweet and sour. “And sick or not, you need to brush up on your manners.”

He turned and put a guiding hand on Porthos’ back and steered him towards the door, overruling his protests and insisting on the need for a proper meal in the mess. 

“We’ll send someone in to watch over you while we’re eating, but we’ll be back,” promised Porthos. “Now swear to me that you will get some sleep.”

“Swearing profusely right this minute,” confirmed Aramis with a petulant tone in his voice, but at a further look from Porthos, closed his eyes obediently. 

 

.....................................

 

The door closed and Aramis lay with his eyes shut and waited a good while before he permitted himself a deep breath. Convalescing allowed one a tremendous amount of time to plan and an inordinately large period in which to hatch, fine tune and modify those plots. 

But convalescing could be too quick, Aramis surmised. Deep breaths and stretching and an excess of exuberant alertness might make Porthos back off, so it was best to recover …. slowly. 

Not to mention … in private. 

He only had a short time to think before a minder would turn up to supervise his recovery, stifling all quality thinking time. He took another deep breath, stretched, opened his eyes and ….

_“Aaargh!!!”_

Athos regarded him coolly. 

Heart thumping, Aramis considered implementing a rapid deterioration in his condition but the steely gaze was one he recognised and it was never one to tolerate his affectations. All he could do was huff and pull the sheets up over his chest as if they would help protect him from his friend’s penetrating surveillance. 

There was silence and Aramis squirmed under the cotton covers, frowning at Athos. 

“A man lurking at the bedside of a sick, ailing friend would ordinarily make their presence known before scaring them into having a heart turn,” he declared primly.

Athos nodded. “As a friend or yours, indeed, I should have done just that.” He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes menacingly. “As a friend of Porthos’, I am much more interested in demanding to know what sort of elaborate game you are playing with him.”

Aramis looked outraged, then pained, but Athos was clearly in it for the long haul and locked his eyes on him with an expression of suspicious tolerance. 

“Out with it. What are you up to?”

Aramis turned his head and looked at the far wall. “Nothing. Go away.”

“I am not leaving and now I’m positive that you are up to something I will lock the door and let nobody else in until you tell me what you’re plotting.”

Huffing, Aramis scowled, waited a long time to test the veracity of Athos’ threat, then when it was apparent he wasn’t going to go away announced grandly, raising his eyebrows, “Porthos had one regret …. Me!”

Athos managed to look equally unsurprised and unimpressed. 

“Half of Paris regrets knowing you because you bedded their wives and the other half regrets meeting one of your musket balls in a fight.” 

“Not _that_ sort of regret,” snapped Aramis. “Porthos expressed a regret that he had not experienced … well … not been subjected to …. exposed to …. the … _my_ …. powers of seduction.”

Aramis eyeballed Athos, daring him to recoil or scoff or dismiss the suggestion as ludicrous.

Instead, Athos pondered the news with a distinct lack of astonishment then leaned in close and growled, “If you hurt Porthos, I. Will. Hurt. You!” He emphasized the last four words by poking Aramis hard in the ribs. 

“ _Owww!!!_ ” yelped Aramis, genuinely sore. “Get off me!” He swatted Athos’ finger away and inspected his tender side with a hiss. 

“Did you not hear what I just said? Porthos wants me to seduce him! He told me so himself!”

“In the last moments when he thought you were both going to die,” surmised Athos drily. 

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact. That _was_ when he told me.” Aramis folded his arms and gave Athos a cross glare. “Are his wishes to be ignored because of the timing of their expression?”

“The simple answer is yes, my dear Aramis.” 

At the tone, which was gentle rather than admonishing, Aramis glanced and raised his eyebrows at Athos. 

“My friend, I adore you but you fall in love deeply, have your heart broken and move on to the next victim all in the space of time it takes me to load a musket.”

“Victim! How dare you!” spluttered Aramis with indignation. 

“I dare because we are not speaking of an anonymous wife or a casual fancy whose name none of us can remember, least of all you. We are talking about Porthos. Our closest friend. Our fellow musketeer. A soul too blithe and trusting for his own good. Someone we both love unconditionally. Aramis, I will not let you sever the bond you have simply to satisfy your daily need to play games with other people’s hearts.”

“I would _never_ hurt Porthos.”

“Really?”

“Yes, _Really!_ My god, Athos, what sort of person do you take me for?”

“One who is so well versed in seduction that it is his second nature as is the lack of consideration of consequences.”

Aramis gave Athos a hard glare and hissed, “That is not what I do.”

“Your past and recent performances suggest otherwise.”

”Get out.”

“I’m merely trying to ensure that you don’t jeopardise your relationship with Porthos.”

_“Get. Out!”_

 

................................

 

The poor lad sent to mind Aramis arrived minutes later and left just as hurriedly, chased by venomous threats and various items within Aramis’ reach thrown at him for good measure as he backtracked, scrambling out the door.

It had seemed such a good plan, appealing to Porthos’ nurturing nature, playing the victim, getting coddled and held and fussed over. Surely that was a line of seduction which would lead to more intimate modes of touching? 

The door opened and Aramis raised a cup ready to throw. 

“Whoa! Hey, it’s me.” Porthos held both his hands up in submission and eased slowly through the door. 

“Oh. You. Sorry.” Aramis frowned and placed the cup back down on the stool beside his bed. 

Porthos walked slowly around the bed then sat close beside Aramis, hands folded in his lap, making no attempt to touch him. 

“Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“Not really.”

“Want me to tell you what’s going on?”

“Huh?”

“Athos has just let me in on a theory he has about your … _condition_.”

“Oh I swear, the next time I line up my musket he will be on the end of it.”

“Aramis!” 

Blood boiling, nevertheless Aramis looked at Porthos, who sighed and patiently uncrossed Aramis’ arms until he could unclench one of his hands and hold it. 

“Who is your best friend?”

Aramis frowned. 

“It’s not a trick question.”

“You.”

Porthos nodded. “That’s right. Me.”

“Who knows you best? Athos or me?”

“You.”

“Correct.” Porthos brought his other hand up and cradled Aramis’ unhappy face in his hand, thumb stroking his chin, smoothing down his whiskers. 

“So if Athos – who is not your best friend – could guess that you were trying to implement a cunning plan to seduce me by trying to act slightly more feeble than you actually are, do you think that possibly, just possibly, there is a small chance that I – _your best friend_ – might just have worked out what you were up to as well?”

Porthos watched the wide range of realisations and emotions that rapidly flitted across Aramis’ face with much amusement. 

“I’m your best friend who you’re supposed to know, yet you think the way to seduce me is to let me play nursemaid to you while you pretend to be sick?”

“I _am_ sick!”

“Okay then …. while you pretend to be more sick than you actually are.”

Aramis pursed his lips. 

“I wasn’t trying to ….”

“Yes you were. You just didn’t think it through. Didn’t think about who you were trying to seduce.”

Aramis blinked and Porthos chuckled at his obvious uncertainty. His voice was low and calm when he spoke.

“I haven’t changed my mind. The challenge is still there. I want you to try to seduce me. But not in this lazy, half-arsed way that you could try on anybody. Seduce _me_ , Aramis. _Me_.”

There was a pause then a gulp. 

“What if I get it wrong?” whispered Aramis, eyes big and dark. 

Porthos shrugged and squeezed his hand. “Then it won’t work, I’ll eye roll you, you’ll sulk and we’ll carry on as we always have, dancing around this thing but not committing to anything more."

“And if I get it right?”

“I suspect we’ll both die with no regrets.”

The moment passed between them, faces close, staring, imprinting the promise once more. Aramis looked at Porthos’ eyes, dark, kind, passionate and open, crinkled momentarily with amusement. His gaze shifted down to the lips, full and slightly open. Aramis moved to within a breath of kissing them but at the last moment Porthos moved his face up and kissed Aramis’ forehead instead. 

“ _Nah. Uh_. Naughty. That’s not seduction. That’s just opportunism.” 

Aramis smirked tiredly then sighed, flopping back on the pillow. “My skills are rusty.”

“Rest. You’re not as sick as you wanted me to believe but you are still very unwell. Take time. Treville wants all hands on deck to deal with the Toulouse mob so scheme and connive while you can. And Aramis …?”

“ _Mmmm?”_

“Make me want you bad.”

“ _Mmmm_. Bad.”

Porthos watched Aramis slip into slumber then pulled the blanket up over his chest. 

He shivered. It was going to be a long and interesting Summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be a 3000 word fic but it sort of got out of hand. About 6 more chapters to go. Thanks so much for all the lovely feedback. Means heaps to me. 
> 
> Some things surprised me:
> 
> \- Athos the Cockblocker. Who knew?  
> \- Peaches? Que? No idea where that came from.


	4. The Prize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis wants a Prize

Five weeks. 

Porthos hadn’t expected his anticipation to morph into something more akin to scepticism. 

Not that he thought Aramis had forgotten about it. Just that he didn’t seem in any hurry to actually do … or even begin … the seducing. 

Okay, so maybe he had acted a bit like a skittish maiden in those first days when Aramis was finally well enough to move around the garrison. And he had made _that_ noise when Aramis approached him and slung a hand around his neck. How could he have known that Aramis was on the verge of passing out and wanted support rather than a kiss?

It earned him a bemused “Oh Porthos, _really?_ ” before Aramis really did pass out but unfortunately unconsciousness hadn’t erased the memory of it and he was still being reminded of that sound by Aramis, always accompanied by peals of laughter. 

So the five weeks hadn’t been without incident. Just not the incident Porthos was expecting. 

There was plenty else going on to contend with. 

“I’d rather share an ale with a Spaniard!” was how Athos put it. 

“The first musketeer to make one bleed gets a court martial, a castle from the King and my undying gratitude,” Treville reminded them as he stormed out. 

D’Artagnan just stabbed his blade into the table repeatedly and muttered curses on Toulouse and anybody vaguely connected to the regiment stationed there. 

Aramis sat propped up on his bed, book abandoned on his lap yet again as he listened patiently to the descriptions of today’s outrages prompted by the Toulouse soldiers.

“ … and then he turned to the General and told him that _we_ were the uncouth ones!” complained Porthos, throwing his pistol down on the mattress in disgust as he sat down heavily by Aramis’ side. 

Sighing, Aramis picked up the weapon and inspected it fondly. 

“If our Captain would only agree to let me back out there with you I would endeavour to help, I really would,” he said wistfully, spinning the pistol expertly around his fingers.

“You could shoot that bastard Guillaume who called Porthos a ….”

The words died an abrupt death on d’Artagnan’s lips as Porthos shot him a deadly glare. 

Aramis looked between them and lay the weapon down on his knee. “Called Porthos a … _what_ exactly?” 

“Doesn’t matter,” said Porthos firmly.

“Oh, I’m fairly sure it does,” insisted Aramis. 

"No, it doesn't. You'll just get angry. We'll deal with it. You just stay here and get better." 

They all hurried away and Aramis was left to ponder potential revenge on a Toulouse soldier he hadn't even laid eyes on yet.

 

\------------------------

 

A contest. 

Muskets. 

Five targets. 

The General had suggested it. Treville, only a Captain, could scarcely say no. 

He did say no when the General stated that _he_ should be able to choose the participants, one from each side. 

"Surely your men are all musketeers, all well-versed in weaponry? Any one of them should suffice?"

Treville had bristled, but conceded eventually.

Any cadets, anyone less than stellar with their shooting skills, was hurried away out of sight. It was bad enough that his best marksman was out of action. Even if Aramis had been well enough to attend his skills would be too rusty for him to even think about participating. Treville wouldn't tolerate a total humiliation by letting the General choose someone untrained and out of practice. 

Guillaume stepped up to represent Toulouse. 

Porthos shot him a filthy look and cursed under his breath at the arrogant confidence he projected. 

The General cast a shrewd eye around the courtyard. 

Musketeers stood to attention, chests out, proud, defiant, ready. Uniformed and immaculate. 

A noise sounded at the back of the courtyard, near the quarters. 

A loud yawn. A vocalised stretch. 

Aramis leaned heavily against a verandah post, rumpled beyond belief, white shirt creased, crumpled and clearly not fresh today. His trousers hung low, one boot was turned up, the other half-heartedly folded over. 

The hair was crazily out of control, wild and unkempt. He looked worse than he had for days and surveyed the crowd with seeming surprise, blinking and wiping bleary eyes. 

Aramis looked a mess, slouched there wiping his nose with his sleeve and rubbing an itch on his stomach, his scalp, his neck, and as Porthos watched he did everything bawdy except scratch his arse and rearrange his balls. 

“Oh no. Not now,” hissed Athos under his breath. 

Porthos heard a few other musketeers offer low curses. 

Aramis smiled and waved at his friends, flipped his hat in his hands, dropped it, then put it on. 

_Backwards._

His antics began to attract the attention of a few of the Toulouse soldiers. Heads bent in for quick discussions, one or two pointed and laughed. Someone tapped the General on the shoulder and nodded toward Aramis, who had picked up a sword and was brandishing it with much swishy flair but little obvious skill. 

The General cast a shrewd eye over the scene then beckoned to Treville. A quick discussion led to the Captain shaking his head and stating loudly “absolutely not” but the General pushed his point home and thrust a finger in the direction of Aramis. 

“He’s had no practice for nearly 6 weeks,” muttered Athos. 

D’Artagnan shook his head and cursed. “We’ll never live this down.” 

Treville stomped over to the musketeers with his eyes downcast, anger and disappointment clear in his features. 

“The General has chosen … Aramis! Who, when this is all over, will explain to us all in great detail why he chose to make an appearance finally on today of all days when everyone not fully fit and prepared was expressly banned from showing their face in the garrison.”

The chorus of discontent grew and a few men turned their backs and walked away. 

Porthos stared around him. 

Then he stared at Aramis. 

He felt something flip and flutter deep in his stomach. 

For Porthos and Porthos alone knew something that nobody else knew. Each morning, early, and each late afternoon before dusk for the past three weeks he had accompanied Aramis out to a field where he could shoot targets and train for his return to service, refusing to turn up rusty and unprepared when he was finally allowed to attend an official training session. On the morning of day one, for the first time as a musketeer Porthos felt he was Aramis’ equal with a musket. By the afternoon of day two he had been surpassed. This week Aramis had rarely missed a target. 

Porthos hurried to get Aramis’ favourite musket and had to suppress a chuckle as Treville approached the scruffy figure across the courtyard and Aramis managed to clumsily drop the sword to the ground at his feet. With a comical _‘Oops!’_ expression on his face, Aramis quickly sobered as Treville offered him some choice low words. Trying to contain his rage in front of the rapt audience watching intently, Treville’s index finger couldn’t stop jabbing and stabbing the air in front of Aramis. 

Toulouse troops were now openly laughing and Porthos felt a mixture of ire and thrilled expectancy as Treville parted the crowd of soldiers and planted his feet to watch the contest with the air of someone awaiting execution. 

“Gentlemen, take your positions please,” announced the General. 

Guillaume stepped up promptly and propped up his musket, sending a lewd, dismissive sneer at Aramis who took his time and thanked Porthos profusely for finding him ‘a spare musket’ when it was handed to him. 

“’Mis, if he beats you the Cap’n’s threatening to send your head to Spain for the King to use as a footrest.” 

Aramis kept on smiling broadly, didn’t rush, and inspected the outside of the weapon with intense curiosity as if never seen before, even though he’d personally commissioned every single engraving.

“And what do I get as a prize if I win?” he asked, straightening his shirt, easing his braces up and deftly flipping his hat again, this time correctly setting it in place. 

“A thousand rounds of ale at the inn and a grovelling apology from our Captain I expect.”

Aramis loaded the musket and gave Porthos an intense stare over the barrel as he checked it. 

“I meant from you. What is my prize?”

Taken by surprise, Porthos hesitated. 

“I’m not sure you get a prize from me.”

“But I want one.”

“Why?”

“Because everything I’m doing here is for you.” He propped the musket up on the stand and took a practice aim, all the time speaking low. “I’m not trying to make anybody laugh except you. I’m not showing off to anybody except you. I don’t care what anybody thinks except you. So I’m going to hit every target because I’m going to get a prize, from you.”

A breath hitched in Porthos’ chest. 

“What do you want?”

“A kiss.”

“Round one, gentlemen!” interrupted the General and Guillaume fired immediately, straight and sure to the centre of the target. 

Aramis aimed but held his fire. 

“I won’t shoot until I get your answer.”

“What if I say no?”

“I’ll miss.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“I said I was going to kiss you, I didn’t say I was going to respect you.”

“Is there a problem, Aramis?” hissed Athos, stepping forward. 

“Ask Porthos.”

Athos looked questioningly at Porthos, who bit his lip and shook out his shoulders. 

“No, there’s no problem.”

“So you agree?”

“Begrudgingly.”

“Yessss.”

The hiss of his word blended with the firing of the musket, the ball splitting the centre of the target a fraction of a second later. 

Musketeers cheered, Treville exhaled and Aramis turned to Porthos and as he pursed his lips and blew the hot smouldering residue off the barrel, he shot him a look that promised a whole other form of hot, smouldering filth.

Porthos felt his balls clench and suddenly the collar of his doublet felt warm and two sizes too small.

There was no more talk between them. Aramis had the promise he wanted and he knew exactly what he had to do to get it. 

Every shot he made hit the mark true and centre and each time he cleared the barrel with a sharp puff of breath he would make sure his eyes were boring into Porthos. 

Porthos knew himself to be a man of robust constitution but by the fourth round his head was spinning. 

Guillaume, now well aware he had been played, sent some choice derisive words in Aramis’ direction. The musketeer lobbed back his most brilliant smile and politely doffed his hat. 

Half the crowd jeered, the other half hooted with laughter, the musketeers not caring that they themselves had also been played in the setup of the con.

Whether it was the pressure, the General’s increasingly angry demeanour, the noise of the local crowd or the lazy ease of the stupid cocky musketeer that so irritated his sensibility and precision, Guillaume’s fourth shot went just wide, smashing partly through the white circle outside the bullseye. 

Quirking his lip, Aramis winked at Porthos who felt certain he should be horrified but unfortunately found himself totally mesmerised. The shot was taken quickly and true and Aramis took the lead. 

Guillaume’s final shot found the mark but he threw his musket down and skulked off without waiting to see his rival’s attempt. 

Aramis tipped his hat at the soldier’s retreating back then spun flamboyantly around to the crowd and put a shooshing finger to his lips. 

The musketeer took up his position and aimed at the target. Porthos held his breath with the rest of the crowd. Aramis stood stock still, holding the pose for longer than even the first shot. 

Then the musket fired. 

Pandemonium broke out. 

D’Artagnan whooped with joy and grappled a hollering Porthos to the ground. Athos bear-tackled Treville into the middle of the cheering regiment out of sight of the General so he could celebrate the victory without seeming churlish or impolite. The expected brawls broke out around the courtyard. Promises of retribution were made. Faces and ranks were noted. Aramis was lifted, laughing uproariously aloft a raft of musketeers and thrown into the air before someone suggested “Inn!” and he was swept out the gates and down the way. 

It was over an hour later, after speeches and re-enactments and retellings of Aramis and his early morning shooting practice sessions and countless accounts of the looks on the faces of Guillaume and the General when Aramis’ shots hit their target time after time that Porthos and Aramis finally got the chance to sit down and clink their cups together for a job well done. 

“Did you plan this shooting contest the whole time?

Aramis gestured over his shoulder to the singing crowd. 

“Did you not hear the story five thousand times? Apparently it was a masterplan, years in the making.”

“I heard the story but I want to know the truth, from you.” 

“I didn’t know what was going to happen but all the talk about the Toulouse soldiers – you can tell everybody is on edge. I thought I should be prepared for whatever was going to happen.”

“And are you … _prepared_?” It was Porthos’ turn to peer surreptitiously over the edge of his cup. 

“Ahhhhhhhh.” Aramis drew out the sound, leaning back his head and raising his own cup. “You no longer speak of soldiers my dear friend. I think you are lingering on the topic of my prize.”

“Hmmph. This wasn’t part of the original agreement. You shouldn’t be getting a prize.”

“A hundred and twenty men in this inn would beg to differ.”

“You blackmailed me.”

“Are you reneging on our deal?”

Porthos shrugged and emptied his cup, rapping it down noisily down on the bench. 

“So where do we do this?”

“On the lips is traditional but if you have another body part in mind ….”

“Aramis!”

Cackling at Porthos’ clear discomfort, Aramis threw back the last of his ale and rose to leave, beckoning over his shoulder for Porthos to follow. 

 

\------------------

 

Porthos had been to Aramis’ lodgings a thousand times before, but never had the sound of the door locking behind him seemed so ominous and threatening. 

Candles were lit, soft flickering light appearing more foreboding than illuminating. 

Aramis unbuckled his weapon belts and removed his sash, so he turned to Porthos wearing no adornments except the chains and rosaries around his neck. He threw his hat onto the table then looked expectantly at Porthos. 

Porthos had felt less nervous when faced with a marauding cavalry of Spanish. He shed none of his armoury – _the symbolism of which was not lost on either of them_ – and stood in the centre of the room, arms folded tight, feet planted solidly, chin thrust out defiantly and eyes narrowed.

“Good grief, Porthos.” Aramis raised both eyebrows and gestured at the defensive pose. “It’s like you’re about to get hung drawn and quartered by vengeful Huguenots.”

“Might be preferable,” the big man mumbled tightly. 

Aramis took a step forward and Porthos swayed back, only barely managing to stop himself from backing away. 

“Really?” exclaimed Aramis, hands on hips now. 

Porthos huffed out a breath. “It’s too weird. Not sure I can do this.”

“You don’t have to do anything. I shall kiss you. That is all.”

“No funny business,” stated Porthos, glaring at him accusingly.

“I thought you wanted this?” Aramis sounded annoyed now.

“I thought I did too, but this, with you, it’s freaking me out.”

“So let’s call it all off.”

“Fine!” Porthos said the word then turned away and went to lean against the wall, stance still defensive and tense. “Just go,” he added, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. 

There was no sound of anybody leaving and when Aramis spoke again his voice was soft and low. 

“You told me to think hard about who I was trying to seduce. To remember that you are my best friend, someone I know and love and trust. Well I think you need to remember who it is that’s here with you now. This is me, Porthos. I’m not going to hurt you or make fun of you or try to take anything away from you. It’s just me. Look.”

Porthos did. 

Aramis was standing, hands held out by his side, palms open. 

“See? Just me.” 

Porthos dropped his head and let out a heavy sigh. 

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. I’m standing here acting like you’re about to steal my maidenhood when it was me who asked for this in the first place. And you deserve more than that. Especially today.”

A moment, then the side of Porthos’ mouth quirked up. 

“You were magnificent out there, you know.”

“I was rather, wasn’t I?” preened Aramis, grinning broadly. 

That made Porthos laugh. 

“Guillaume’s face when you hit the target …”

“I thought our Captain was about to pass out at the end.”

Aramis came forward, smiling and Porthos beamed and cupped him around the back of the neck as he had so many times before. 

“Don’t ever change, ‘Mis.”

“Never.”

Aramis reached up slowly and flattened his right hand on the wall beside Porthos’ face. He stared at him, a smile still ghosting his lips, eyes dark and seductively calm. His left hand tentatively touched Porthos’ jaw, skimming whiskers and dark skin and brushing softly down over his strong neck. 

Porthos felt his pulse race quicker. His fingers flexed involuntarily around Aramis’ neck and he tried not to breathe as Aramis dropped his gaze to his mouth and gently skimmed the knuckle of a finger over his bottom lip. 

After, Porthos would swear to the Almighty that his hand didn’t draw Aramis forward, but he really couldn’t bet his life on it. All he knew was that he was drawn down and Aramis stretched up and the softest lips imaginable brushed over his, tentatively seeking, wondrously exploring. 

At some point Porthos felt the hand on the wall slide into his hair, his own hand reached around Aramis’ waist, the kiss deepened, mouths opened, tongues demanded entry, somebody moaned and all restraint was lost. 

Porthos found himself completely adrift in the kiss, drawn forward, pulling Aramis’ body close and roaming his hands all over the muscular back until they found their way under the hem of the white shirt and finally found the smooth skin they had been seeking.

The taste of Aramis enthralled him. His aroma, masculine, all sweat, spice and leather. Another moan of need and this time Porthos couldn’t pretend it was anybody but him. There was a loud crash and the vague awareness that Aramis was now pushed up against the wall and furniture had broken. _C’est la vie_. Porthos greedily met Aramis’ moan of need as his hand slipped down his spine and under the waistband of his trousers, gripping and crushing their bodies together.

A loud knock on the door made them freeze, mid-kiss. A further, louder bashing made them pull apart. Porthos stared at Aramis, panting, lips parted, eyes dilated, hair wild and mussed. 

“Aramis? Are you okay?”

Bloody Athos. 

_I’ll kill him!_

“We heard a crash. Is everything all right?”

Aramis tried to speak but had to have a few attempts before he could make a raspy reply. 

“I’m fine. Just … knocked over a ….” He looked down to check and confirmed with some surprise “ … table and chairs!”

“Hah, he’s drunk,” came d’Artagnan’s voice. “We had to come and get you. The soldiers have just arrived back from Lyon. They’re livid they missed the contest but they are adamant that you have to make an appearance now before they retire for the night.”

Aramis bit his lip and searched skyward for help.

“Is Porthos with you?”

They looked at each other, still breathless and unravelled. 

Porthos exhaled a deep sigh and straightened his clothing. 

“I’m here.”

“Come on! They’re waiting. Or do we have to break this door down to get you?”

“No, definitely don’t do that,” exclaimed Aramis, tucking his shirt back in and adjusting the belt on his trousers. “We’ll be there. Just give us a minute to tidy up … the furniture.”

A few silent minutes were spent tidying and adjusting and smoothing and straightening. 

Aramis unlocked the door but didn’t open it. He turned and raised his eyebrows, giving Porthos a nod. 

“I have to hand it to you. That was quite an unexpected ... prize.”

“Well, you are the master of seduction. And I did ask for it.”

A smile flittered across Aramis’ face. 

“Oh that wasn’t the seduction. That was my prize for today’s contest.” His expression became wolfish. “Think of it as a prelude if you must. The main show hasn’t even begun yet.”

As Porthos watched Aramis stride out into the hallway ahead of him, fastening his weapons for the reception he was about to receive, he wondered, head spinning, if he was waaaayyyyy out of his depth.


	5. The Pantry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis is chased and Porthos and the readers finally get some payback.

Porthos smiled pleasantly. 

Aramis was a sadistic, evil, good-for-nothing, bastard. 

The pistol was polished for the umpteenth time and Aramis looked up and smiled serenely back at him. 

“Everything still well with you my friend?”

“Of course,” insisted Porthos, his face beginning to ache from an afternoon of beaming. 

“Ahh, I am so pleased to hear it. I’d hate for you to be wishing you were elsewhere.” Aramis huffed onto the silver etchings and rubbed them to a high polish with his cloth. “It would be horrible to be sitting here, watching me undertake such a mundane activity if you really wished to be elsewhere, doing certain other activities.”

Porthos projected his most genial expression and vividly, satisfyingly imagined ripping Aramis’ smug, irritating head off and crushing it with his bare hands. Then he replayed the scene, this time pausing to kiss Aramis, hard, passionately, possessively …. before twisting the little son-of-a-whore’s head off. 

Aramis tutted, as if reading Porthos’ mind, then pursed his lips and frowned at the gleaming pistol. “Still filthy,” he sighed, then glanced up. “Doesn’t matter what I do, there is filth everywhere, isn’t there my dear friend. Filth, filth, _filth!”_

The smile stayed on Porthos’ lips but he felt his eyes narrow with torturous thoughts as Aramis observed his darkening mood with growing delight. 

“You seem a tad off your game today, _mon ami_. Perhaps you are coming down with something? Maybe you’ve accidentally put your lips to something that didn’t agree with you?”

A large, dark fist slammed down onto the bench. 

“Too bloody right I did!” 

Aramis jumped but then a high pitched hum of amusement tickled the back of his throat and he chortled aloud delightedly. 

“My goodness me. You seem positively animalistic today Porthos. However will you manage to work off all that passion and aggression?”

Athos and d’Artagnan caught the tail end of the words as they approached the bench. Athos stopped dead, closed his eyes and refused to come any closer whilst d’Artagnan slowed and made a pained look then remarked softly, “Really, it took less time to build Rome than for you two to….”

Porthos gave him a sour look and turned away and Aramis rose, still chuckling, and finally sheathed his gleaming pistol. 

“It’s a lovely day, the sun is shining, my friend Porthos is delightful company, if a tad impatient, the wonderful Athos there has stopped still to savour the warm breeze. It seems the perfect day to seek out our new comrades from Toulouse to enquire after their wellbeing.”

“Stop taunting them,” chided Athos, finally taking the last few steps toward the bench and settling down with a weary sigh. “You won. Now step back and let it lie.”

“I was merely saying that my new special friend Guillaume ….”

“… will skewer you, with the help of twenty of his genuine soldier friends if you keep on provoking them.” 

Athos chose a most withering look from his armoury and gifted it to Aramis, who huffed and donned his gloves. 

“You are most uncharitable, dear Athos. One should reach out to those in need of companionship and cheer.” Aramis tipped his hat at him and strode off jauntily, giving Porthos a mischievous grin on the way past. 

“He’s going to get himself killed eventually.”

Porthos shook his head and said adamantly, “They’ll kill themselves just to get away from him.”

D’Artagnan looked at the ale Athos had poured him then glanced over his shoulder at Aramis’ retreating back. 

Smiling tiredly, Athos informed him, “It’s your turn to babysit.”

Cursing, d’Artagnan downed a big throatful of ale then grabbed his sword and scampered off at a quick pace. 

Athos and Porthos stared at each other with a knowing look then swigged their ale in silence, savouring the peace. 

 

\-------------------

 

“Porthos! Athos! Get armed, gentlemen!”

“What’s he done?” Athos was already buckling his belt and donning his hat, not bothering to ask who d’Artagnan was referring to. 

“The usual, with some extra aggravation and provocation. Then he threw a smouldering look at the girl Guillaume was entertaining. It turned her head, she looked at Aramis like a starved wolf spying fresh prey and it all blew up. We only just got out of there but they chased us halfway across Paris. I tried to make them follow me but they weren’t interested. They want Aramis’ blood and if they catch him I don’t know that even orders from the King will hold them back.”

“ _Shit._ Get the others. Split into teams of four and keep looking until we find him.” Porthos felt his blood rise. Anger at Aramis for being so persistently challenging and fear at the implications of Aramis, alone, being pursued by enraged soldiers. Not that Aramis couldn’t handle himself normally. He could. But his luck was going to run out eventually and the aggravation had escalated to a dangerous level. 

 

\--------------------

 

Four hours and nobody had found Aramis. They had found Toulouse soldiers. There had been skirmishes, swords were drawn, pistols pointed, curses thrown. But no Aramis. Porthos had roared and waded into a fight when the Toulouse soldiers taunted them at their inability to find Aramis. “He’s dead. One of our lot have most likely run ‘im through,” they jeered. 

It was past being entertaining. It was getting alarming. Then Athos had found Aramis’ sword. D'Artagnan had found his hat. Later one of the Toulouse soldiers held up Aramis’ pistol, taunting them with it, asking why it would have been separated from its owner. That was the real turning point. Porthos hit the soldier, barrelled into a few other soldiers for good measure, retrieved the pistol, then stormed through the streets, trying to quash the rising feeling of panic. He wanted to find Aramis, not Aramis’ body. The execution scene played out in his mind again and he began to sweat and feel nauseous. 

Something caught his eye as he ran down past the inn where today’s fight had been initiated. He doubled back and looked down the small dirty alley beside the inn. Looking through the shadows to the next row of buildings lit up in the distance he could hear yelling, see men running, the scarlet underside of the Toulouse uniforms flashing as they raced past. He hadn’t seen who they were chasing but it seemed likely …. 

Suddenly, behind him, Aramis skidded out of another alley, trying to cut back to avoid his hunters. He was completely dishevelled, disarmed of all his weapons, and there were spots and oozes of blood evident all over his white shirt and probably other places not so obvious. 

“Aramis!” 

The delight and relief on Aramis’ face was obvious, but he didn’t slow down and grabbed Porthos’ arm, turned and propelled him forward as he reached him. 

“Move! Move!”

They ran, ducked down alleys, scampered through a blacksmiths workshop, slid through mud as they took a shortcut behind another grim ale house, and appeared to have opened up at least a small gap between themselves and their pursuers. 

“I can’t run any more,” panted Aramis, bending double and almost retching in his breathlessness. 

Porthos took stock of their surroundings and gave a door at the back of the ale house a hard thump. It opened inwards to a small corridor with another door inside to the right. The second door opened out and inside was a small pantry. 

“In here. We’ll never lose them. Have to hide.” 

He pushed Aramis inside the corridor, carefully shut the door to the alley, then crammed inside the pantry with Aramis and thanked whoever had designed it with a handle on the inside of the door. 

It was dark inside but the roof was older than the gods and slivers of sunlight filtered down on them through the decaying wood. 

Porthos had to wrap his arms around Aramis in order to put them somewhere. Aramis’ hands were on his chest, trapped between them. 

Aramis was trying not to make any noise as they heard running footsteps splashing past outside in the alley, but he was panting hard and had to bury his face in Porthos’ chest to stop his wheezing breath from attracting attention. 

“Shh. Keep it quiet or they’ll find us.”

Aramis raised his head and he was grinning like mad and silently laughing, face sheened with sweat and dirt and all manner of filth, chest still heaving roughly after his day of flight. His eyes were brilliant spots of dark and light, gleaming with the thrill and pure pleasure of the game. 

Porthos managed to shake his head censoriously but was struck by the profound love he felt for his friend at this moment. His dirty, smelly, sweaty, reckless, foolhardy friend. 

The door from the alley rattled then thumped inwards. Porthos and Aramis froze and stared at each other, a grin of anticipation still plastered on Aramis’ face. Someone tried to open the pantry door and Porthos had to hold the handle and pull it in tight to not give any leeway. Such was his force that the door didn’t budge or rattle at all. 

There was cursing and someone stabbed something sharp into a wooden structure. 

“We’ll skin him alive when we find him,” someone growled, still close by outside. 

Despite the danger, Porthos realised that Aramis’ grin had widened and he was actually trying to stifle a giggle. 

_No, no. no! Not now!_

Eyes widening, Porthos shook his head disapprovingly and put his free hand over Aramis’ mouth. That only seemed to increase his mirth though and he squirmed to get free of the fingers covering his lips. 

It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Something, anything, had to stop Aramis from making any noise so Porthos shut down all rational warnings and kissed Aramis hard, wrapping a hand around the back of his head so he couldn’t pull away. 

A moan almost escaped Aramis and Porthos abruptly moved his hand up and grasped a fistful of hair and drew his head back, letting Aramis see that no, making a sound was not acceptable. His scent was intoxicating, there was blood on his lips from a cut, Porthos now realised, and this close, jammed together in the small space, he could feel the rise and fall of Aramis’ already panting chest as he started a new struggle for air from the kiss. 

Aramis bit the bloodied cut on his lip then focussed on Porthos’ mouth like it was the holy grail and launched himself into another kiss. His hands were still trapped between them and even Porthos had to stifle a chuckle as he felt Aramis desperately try to release them so he could return the embrace. 

Despite the struggle, the kiss was long and deep and passionate, fuelled by adrenalin and exhilaration born of fear and fight. Porthos longed to run his other hand over Aramis but didn’t dare let go of the door handle in case their hiding place was discovered. So he just pressed forward with his entire body, his one free hand still grasping and clutching at Aramis’ hair, guiding and coaxing him to continue the kiss. 

A pull back and Porthos felt his trousers constrict as Aramis gave him the most devilish of looks. His hands tried one last time to move up but Porthos disallowed it again by pressing forward. A mutinous look from Aramis made him smile until he felt the hands on his chest start to slip south. 

Raising an eyebrow in victory, and clearly revelling in putting this new evil thought process into action, Aramis pressed his fingers hard into Porthos’ waist, then past his hip bone, slowly, excruciatingly sliding his fingers down under the band of Porthos’ trousers. 

Porthos hitched a breath and mouthed a curse, making Aramis mock-frown and shake his head reproachfully. 

_No noise! You know the rules._

The fingers pressed and slid and teased, down past Porthos’ hips and navel, never quite reaching where he now desperately wanted them to reach. A soft moan escaped his lips and Aramis kissed it away then began to undo Porthos’ belt. It was an agonisingly slow process, trying to make no noise, not helped by the confined space, but somehow Aramis succeeded in getting past the belt then unbuttoning Porthos’ trousers. 

When he reached in to feel Porthos’ cock for the first time, Aramis was staring at him, eyes, full of lust and desire. It was difficult to know what he found more erotic. That look or the feeling of Aramis’ hands cupping him, exploring, stroking, and finally wrapping around his cock. 

Every stroke made Porthos curl his body in and curse and with every curse Aramis was there to capture the sound with eager lips. 

Then suddenly after a particularly loud moan from Porthos, Aramis withdrew both his hands and his lips and gave him such a wicked look that Porthos couldn’t help but groan in anguish at the tease. 

Aramis wriggled one hand up and rested a single finger over Porthos’ lips. 

_Shhhh._ He mouthed. _No noise or I’ll stop._

Considering that Aramis _had_ stopped, Porthos was initially unsure how the threat was going to work until Aramis’ head began to disappear down in front of him. Just the idea of it almost made Porthos come right there and then so by the time Aramis had negotiated the tight squeeze to jam himself down on the floor in front of him he was rock hard and fighting to remain in control. 

The fingers returned, teasing, coaxing, kneading everywhere but his cock. 

‘For fuck’s sake just do it,” Porthos heard himself hiss. That got him a bite on his thigh for breaking the no-noise rule which in itself sent shockwaves through his body. Then a moment later when a tongue began licking up his shaft and his balls were unceremoniously sucked and kneaded, he thought his legs would give way. 

_OhfuckohfuckohfuckohhhhhAramisfuuuccckkk!!_

Porthos was reasonably certain he hadn’t moaned that out loud, but it was impossible to be certain because his brain had shut down the instant Aramis took his cock into his warm, moist mouth and ran his tongue over the head. 

A few things became quickly apparent about their working conditions in the pantry: 

**One:** When you squeeze two fully grown musketeers into a very small pantry it doesn’t leave you with a lot of spare room to move. 

**Two:** When one musketeer puts the other musketeer’s cock in his mouth in such a confined space, it doesn’t leave a lot of room to articulate one’s head back and forth, especially when the owner of the aforementioned cock is pressing forward due to extreme overexcitement therefore making the back of your head hit the wall.

 **Three:** Aramis gives exceptionally good head. 

Porthos was acutely aware of Three, but kind of vague on the finer points of One and Two. All he knew was that Aramis had somehow managed to take the full length of his cock into his mouth and it felt better than anything, _ever_ , except for the next moment when Porthos let go of his inhibitions, roughly grabbed Aramis’ hair and began to fuck his face in earnest. 

That was absolutely, _definitely_ , better than anything in the history of everything, _ever_. 

Then Aramis started moaning. 

It was shameless, loud and vibrated around Porthos’ cock when it hit the back of his throat. 

There was nowhere else to go after that. Porthos was fairly certain that he would thrust Aramis through the pantry wall, such was the force of his orgasm when it hit. A shelf broke behind him, he slammed his hand into the wall and clawed the wood as the tremors shook through his body, and a few strands of wavy dark hair rose with his fingers when he finally slid down the slope on the other side of ecstasy and lifted his hand from Aramis’ head. 

Porthos debated the merits of sliding down to the floor with Aramis, who was lapping gently at his sensitive, softening cock when he suddenly became aware of voices and footsteps outside. 

_Shit! How loud had they been?_

Someone tried to open the pantry door but Aramis this time held it shut, his wide dark eyes just visible below. 

“Oi, who’s in my pantry?” came a woman’s voice, angry but curious. “Come out before I set the dogs on yer.”

“Uh, yes, we’re in here,” confirmed Porthos, desperately trying to lift Aramis up while Aramis tried to tuck Porthos' cock back into his trousers and not get anything crucial caught when he did up the buttons. 

It was ungainly, messy, Aramis yelped and hit his elbow on the wall on the way up, Porthos couldn’t get his belt around himself and they both wondered how on earth they had managed to simply stand together in the pantry let alone do any other nefarious activities in there. 

Porthos went to open the door but Aramis stayed his arm and kept holding the door shut. 

“Madame,” he enquired politely, “would it be possible to tell me if you have seen any ruffians lurking around in the alley behind your grand establishment?

She sounded suspicious. “Ruffians? What sort of ruffians?”

“Drunken soldiers, primitive, uneducated types. They wear a uniform of dark grey with distinctive scarlet lining. They picked a fight with myself and my friend and in our haste to escape an unseemly riot we secured ourselves in your pantry and we seem to have gotten rather … stuck.”

It took a while for his words to sink in but eventually the woman’s voice said, “Ain’t no ruffians ‘ere, soldiers or otherwise. Nobody but the young lad 'ere wot ‘eard all the racket you were making in the pantry.”

Sheepishly, still making adjustments and soothing their appearances, Aramis and Porthos emerged from the pantry then stepped out into the alley. 

The woman seemed to have raised her opinion of them after Aramis’ speech, but after a sharp once-over of their dishevelled state it seemed to lower again, especially when she watched as Porthos turned away and tried to do up the buttons on his trousers properly and put on his belt. 

“Madame,” said Aramis, doing his best to block her view of Porthos and smiling amicably. “Please accept our deepest gratitude for allowing us to reside in the safety of your inn.” He looked at the scruffy young lad who was leaning to one side staring wide-eyed around him at Porthos. “And you, young sir, our eternal thanks for hearing our cries of help when we became so terribly wedged in the pantry.”

The boy frowned. “Didn’t sound like no cries of help to me. Lots of gruntin’ and groanin’ ‘s all I heard. Farmyard noises.”

The woman hit the boy across the back of his head and as Aramis stifled a smile he heard Porthos let out a desperate groan of embarrassment behind him. 

“Our many thanks again,” Aramis said then grabbed Porthos by the arm and marched him away quickly before it got any more awkward. 

“Oh god, that was …. _Oh no_ …. That boy, he heard us …. _Oh god_.”

Aramis merely chuckled all the way back to the garrison and repeated the phrase _‘Farmyard noises’_ at Porthos whenever he tried to relive the humiliation. 

Outside the garrison, they paused before going in. 

“I guess I’d better go and face the music,” conceded Aramis with a grimace. 

“You did cause everyone a lot of trouble,” pointed out Porthos, but he added fondly, “It really didn’t end up so badly though.”

Aramis narrowed his eyes at him, “Speak for yourself. You received the blow job of the century. All I have is an abused throat and a gigantic lump on the back of my skull from you thrusting my head into the wall like a giant randy bear.”

Embarrassed, Porthos looked around anxiously to make sure that sentence hadn’t been heard by any other ears. 

Aramis was smirking when he looked back at him. 

“You do that on purpose,” chided Porthos. 

“Maybe. I find you very desirable when you’re mortified.”

“Huh. Desirable." Porthos thought about it then dropped his tone lower. " Well maybe I should accompany you back to your room so I can help inspect your sore throat. And maybe put something on your cut lips. Like my lips.”

Aramis raised his eyebrows in mock outrage. 

“Why Porthos, I do believe you are becoming too forward for my delicate sensibilities.”

“Really?” 

Aramis made a rude noise and chuckled. 

“No, of course not. But you can go back to your own room. I shall seek out Athos to tend to the lump on the back of my head. He shall be diligent in not asking me how I got it and I shall delight in describing the truth to him in great detail and eliciting some pink on his cheeks." He patted Porthos on the shoulder. "And after that fun, I shall need sleep, not distractions. I’ve been chased all over Paris all day and I’m totally and utterly shattered. ”

Porthos pouted. “So no more lessons in seduction?”

“Oh those haven’t even started yet.” Aramis smiled at the look of confusion on Porthos’ face then waved a dismissive hand at him. “Every time I’m close to starting you distract me with something else and it gets delayed.”

“Hang on, so if what went on in the pantry wasn’t you seducing me, then what the hell was it?”

“That was me getting chased. You rescuing me. Then we made a human jigsaw out of our body parts which was thoroughly necessary due to the lack of space we had to work with. Entirely initiated by you too of course, so really it was you seducing me, not the other way around.”

It was Porthos’ turn to narrow his eyes as Aramis walked off. “You could bargain with the Devil, you could.”

“And probably seduce him too,” added Aramis with a wink over his shoulder. 

Of that, Porthos had no doubt.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, sorry, I know I now have two incomplete fics on the go. But I had to get the first chapter of this one one out of my system as it was interfering with the other fic. Chapter 2 is nearly complete.


End file.
